


Consuming

by 9_of_Clubs, drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, God Complex, Hannibal loves his garden, In the Garden, M/M, Murder Husbands Network, Outdoor Sex, Rimming, Teasing, Will loves to stomp his feet in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In Eden,” Hannibal murmurs as he takes the sight in, the image of Will bared and spread, crowned by the wildness of the garden, “sacred fruit brought first knowledge of nakedness, before knowledge of the flesh could be gleaned.”</p><p>“Do you know your nakedness, Will?” Hannibal hums the words against hardening flesh, grazes his mouth over it to feel Will squirm beneath him. “Shall I open your eyes to it?” </p><p>--</p><p>The Murderhusbandsnetwork prompt this week was faith/angels/god and they were already playing in the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consuming

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by eating actual fresh blueberries off the bush, because drinkbloodlikewine is incapable of doing even that without it turning into smutty head canon. (and that's why we love her so)

"Isn’t it honoring the plant to eat it?"

Far too early in the morning for a taunt so goading, Will nonetheless seems particularly pleased with it.

A moment passes between them, filled with nothing more than birdsong and the distinct pluck of annoyance, before Hannibal responds, slow.

"The plant is not there for your whims."

He looks up from where he's crouched in the garden, shears set down at the appearance of sudden agitation. It would not do to make the wrong cut in his distraction.

Above him, Will stands, blocking the sun, bare feet in the dirt, regarding his stained fingers with amusement before taking the last blueberry from his palm and popping it into his mouth. Sun-warm and sweet, stolen from the plant by which Hannibal now crouches as though in feral protection. A sudden fierceness infiltrating the tedium of morning weeding.

"You steal its life without second thought and the life does not belong to you. If it were ready to be eaten, I would have removed it." Sharp eyes watch as Will lifts his fingers to his mouth, pointedly licks away the remains. "And I do not think your dirty fingers are the appropriate vessels to carry it away, do you?” The faint threads of a threat. “Destruction is not honoring."

The freshly sharpened blades of Hannibal’s shears linger near, their metal edges glinting the sun, acute in Will’s awareness, reflected light glinting off Hannibal, but ever he dances forward, just the slight waver of caution in the reach of his arm. Expression trained to blithe neutrality, he plucks another blueberry, fat with juice.

"I am not taking a life," Will retorts, withdrawing quickly to his seat. "This plant creates berries - sweet, fragrant - to be eaten by passing animals so that its seeds are distributed, carried on elsewhere in an effort to grow more of itself." The fruit finds its way to his mouth, a profound satisfaction in the simplicity of the experience - eating the berry, and tormenting Hannibal, both a delightful pleasure. "I would argue that I'm doing the plant a greater justice by eating its fruit as intended."

Again he draws towards the plant, but this time, his wrist is caught in an iron grip, Hannibal’s wrist shooting out as though on reflex.

"You may argue as you please concerning the plants you choose to grow yourself. If you will notice there are none in this garden."

With a tug, Will is pulled downward, the force from his arm bending his body in its chair, and Hannibal rises on his knees. "But since you are no passing animal, though you insist on acting as one, and do not intend to distribute my seeds any further - I find your argument to be void. No justice is done with your filching fingers, only ruin. I grow the life, I tend it, its fate remains with me. Not to stain your greedy lips."

He tilts his head, matching innocence with innocence. "Or shall I stain them with something else?"

Will turns a slight smile to him now, amused, fearful perhaps in some distant way of the man himself more than the blades he holds. He moves with the pull, leans deeper still to seek a kiss. A grin, brightening, when he finds it resisted and Hannibal leans back from him, just enough to avoid it.

"And the rain, the sun, the insects that share the things you grow?” Will chides. “Do you rail against them, Hannibal? Do you threaten the sparrows?" Tremendously pleased with himself, now, even as Hannibal's fingers tighten against his wrist "Does everything have to be so precisely planned, measured, and ordered?"

"And do you fancy yourself a part of nature?" The words come low and dangerous, breaths against Will's mouth, Hannibal’s head turning so lips slide along his cheeks, leave teasing trails in their wake, another kiss avoided. Will ignores the threats and plays in territory that does not belong to him. He steals the berries, he steals the kisses, the life from Hannibal's lungs. "Are you akin to the elements? That I should tolerate your actions as though you were an agent of fate."

His fingers bruise, a curl of a frown as their eyes meet close. "If you are, it is only because I have cultivated you as I do them. I do not threaten sparrows." Sharp teeth glint in the sun, but he does not move to sink them in, will not give Will what he wants. "But I will threaten you. If I wish my garden to be precisely planned and ordered, I will have it so.”

“Doctor, heal thyself,” Will laughs suddenly, a break of sunlight through the gathering clouds of Hannibal’s voice, a gentle lilting alongside snarls. “Perfectionism is unsustainable at such extremes. A maladaptive behavior, to hide one’s own insecurities.”

Hannibal makes no reply as Will leans into him, arm bending uncomfortably in the other’s grip but no more concerned by the pressure than by the shears fisted tight in Hannibal’s other hand. A challenge for contested territory to which Will has no right and every right, all at once.

“How lonely it would be to not consider yourself a part of nature,” Will suggests, not unkind but curious. “Isn’t the purpose of a garden to find your place in that, with all the unpredictability that entails?”

A beat, a breath. Even the wind stills around them.

“Tell me to leave and I won’t trouble you with my greedy lips again,” adds Will, rueful. Challenging.

Finally, a heartbeat and then another noise rises from Hannibal, a flutter of laughter.

“This nature, I orchestrate.”

The sun is hot in the sky above them, sends rays down and shadows the hollows of his cheeks, paints Will golden above him.

“I am not a part of it,” Hannibal continues softly. “It is my creation and into it I breathe life. The life belongs to me, but it is not mine. To raise such a rare thing is the entire purpose. To plant and tend, to triumph if I do enough, to fail if I do not.” 

Movement, and their lips press together, a slow, lingering, kiss. The question of asking Will to leave goes unaddressed - he will not ask him to go outright, it is no secret between them.

“I do not seek perfection, but creation. Perhaps though, with your sudden wisdom about behaviors, you should ask yourself why you seek to be the Satan of my garden. Picking from the fruits that do not belong to you to torment me. Do I allow you in so that you may bite at my heels? Or perhaps you would only like me to fall with you.” 

“Satan?” Will’s laugh is explosive this time, noisy and bright as the much maligned sparrows tittering in the trees lining the garden. “Torment?”

A shadow darkens the man’s mirth, a cloud crossing the sun, as Will adds, “You and I have very different understandings of that word, if eating fresh berries is your idea of it.”

Will’s jaw works a little, arm still wrenched tightly in place by Hannibal’s grip, and he studies him at length. Studies through him, takes in the waves of irritation blossoming into anger, the control stolen from him that Hannibal did not choose to yield but found himself without despite.

Slowly, the tension eases from Will’s expression. Softens, as does his touch against Hannibal’s cheek. Will doesn’t let Hannibal shift away from it this time - he can’t with Will’s arm pulled so tightly against him - and he traces the curve of Hannibal’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“Maybe that’s why you let me in here,” Will suggests, eyebrows lifting a little. “Seeking temptation for the fall you’re too uncertain to take yourself. I can’t force you to do anything. Can’t overpower you,” he adds, with a wry glance to the sharp twist of his wrist. “But I can suggest. Encourage.”

“Lead you into temptation, if not evil,” he adds with a grin, dark humor swelling. “Have you tried them, Hannibal? Not washed and cooled, prepared to death inside a pie or a preserve. Still warm from the sun and sweet against your tongue.”

Will leans nearer, only closing a few inches between them, but enough that his voice brushes soft past Hannibal’s ear.

“Indulgent. Decadent. Careless disregard for the pies yet unmade while we stain our mouths and fingers together.”

“I have tasted careless disregard,” Hannibal reminds him quietly, loosens his grip without needing to see the arm remain in place to know it will, for the moment. Annoyance still curls through his veins, the easy summer words Will sings in his ears. “I have plucked and cut from the branch what was not ready. I found it neither warm, nor sweet. So you will forgive me if I intend to see my deadened pies through to their ends. Uncertainty has not been a kind mistress.”

They may as well be whispering now, their voices barely above the breeze that flits through their hair, but the sounds carry weight, dwell in places no sunshine could reach, tinged darker as they pass through gritted teeth, around a sharp tongue, with brutality. 

“Or would you indeed tempt me back to my impetuous ways?”

Sinuous, Hannibal coils closer, reaches to his side and twists a berry from the branch, raises it before them. “So easy, I can imagine, I know it to be, to take as you please. The simple freedom you indulge yourself in before me, with your prodding fingers and wandering hands. A snap of a berry, the mark of your boot on a table.”

A dark smile to match Will’s curls itself around his features, the fruit pressed to the other’s lips now . “You tempt me and you test me. God and Satan in one, dangling the ability to do as you please, inviting me down the path, but I have abandoned that freedom Will, so that you may hold its mantle in my stead.” 

A breath of a sigh, a flutter of something longing, something of acceptance. “But oh, how you try my patience when you are like this.”

Will blinks wide, guileless blue eyes bright beneath a fringe of curls as he accepts the berry offered in taunt, mouth wrapping soft around Hannibal’s fingertips. A shiver of movement that runs the length of his spine as he draws the older man’s fingers a little deeper than necessary, sucking soft against them when he pulls away.

Amusement, decadent and genuine, as he lifts his free hand to his own mouth to try to stifle the overt pleasure he takes in eating this berry, in particular.

“Does everything have to be so controlled?” Will muses softly, unyielding when Hannibal shifts to resist the kiss that still meets the corner of his mouth. “Is that how you would have me, too? A garden to be tended, cultivated into regimented order?”

A swell of memories, darker than the morning sun shimmering through shifting leaves should allow. Manipulated, shaped, bent and broken to suit Hannibal’s incessant need to rework the things around him to suit his preferences. Prison bars and fierce fevers, scars and blood that Will still bears inside, marks left from his resistance to being altered, his resilience in finding himself again and again despite all of Hannibal’s sincerest efforts.

Ever a force of nature, unpredictable, a wild thing from a wild place that Hannibal could never entirely control.

“You’ve tried, but that’s never been what you’ve loved in me,” Will suggests, shearing his own words a little shorter now. “You keep me here because you can’t cultivate me. You keep me here to test your patience. To push and to pluck, to leave mud from my boots across your floors and know that I was there to do so, no matter how many times you’ve tried to shape me into something else.”

He jerks his wrist free of Hannibal’s bruising grip and smiles faintly.

“And isn’t that the Devil’s game? To lay out temptation and make it seem like your own choice to indulge in it.” His free hand floats, reaches out and lands in Hannibal’s hair, brushes aside a sweaty strand, careless. Hannibal stills beneath it, as stone.

“Do you accuse me or yourself of such things?” Hannibal’s own fingers come up again, wrap around the wrist that teases, but does not stop its motion, only rests sun baked callouses rough, along skin. “I do not keep you here at all.” His hand curves down the length of an arm, Will touches to tease, and Hannibal to threaten, but below the surface there is greater purpose than that. “Nor have I ever sought out your regimented cultivation, but you create mine and wreak chaos upon it, and so I wonder, what is it that you have loved in me?”

In a flash he’s risen on his knees, other arm lifting to cup Will’s cheek, spread fingers across the the sun warmed expanse, the texture filling his touch, smooth but weathered. 

“In truth, you are never more dear to me than when you so carelessly pluck a fruit from my tree, tread ghastly dust across my floor, take my fine glasses and streak them. The spark of insolent life.” He hums, the cadence of the voice is fierce, biting wind across the warm day. “Who else would dare? And so I love you all the more.” Hannibal edges forward, but does not rise, Will shifting under his touch, eyes bright, pleased, hungry. 

“But the temptation is not to indulge. It is to throw open those doors that you crack, when you stain yourself with stolen juice, to take the wildness of your heart, the savageness of mine, and find solace for them in far more than child’s play. Is that not what you seek me to feel, when you do as such? The faint thrum of life, denied? But I see the trap beneath - and so I do not rise to it.”

A hum, pensive.

“I do wonder, Will,” Hannibal continues. “Would you place your wagers on my self control once I have abandoned myself to your offerings, felt the flesh of the sun warmed berries beneath my teeth?”

Will weathers the tone, the threats, the promises and the purrs of warning with the same cocky smile, crooked and eminently self-assured.

“I would wager it,” Will answers, “because who else would dare?”

The wind shifts against them, and Will skims his fingers along the curve of Hannibal’s neck, daring further still.

“What good is a force of nature if there’s nothing to resist it? No trees to uproot, no walls to break down with rain and wind, to spark into flame with lightning?” Will slips from the chair, thighs parting to straddle where Hannibal has knelt, pushing him back to sit on his heels. He slips his arms around his neck, chest to chest, belly to belly, hips to hips. Foreheads touching, now, as well when Will leans into him.

“This is what I love about you.”

A kiss, lingering and soft, as Will stretches a hand behind Hannibal’s back. A snap of leaves, rustling, as Will pulls another berry free.

“So resist me, then, and we’ll see who breaks first,” Will purrs, a playful menace as he brings the fruit to his lips, endless amusement, and Hannibal’s gaze locked on his motions.

“A dangerous proposal.”

Hannibal’s neck curves, lips brushing over Will’s, down the side of his exposed flesh, along the lines of his neck and over the edges of his collar bone. Will so close intoxicates him, sends the roar in his chest aflame, pushing against its bonds, the careless reaching dangling so close, testing him, taunting him. With a breath, he allows some of it loose.

“You would have me resist your offerings, allow you to turn my cheek, so that you may do as you please? While you steal your tastes and I am shackled?” A kiss and up again, drawing a breath from Will. “I think you have persuaded me we have had quite enough of that.” 

“Not a game of wills, but of payment.” The words pull a shiver across Will’s skin, even as Will’s smile does not falter. “I should think that to be more fair. You take from me, I take from you. Your temptation in its microcosm, as you wish it to be.”

A growl beneath the dulcet tones, before sharp teeth sink into Will’s skin, a snarling bite.

“How many do you think you’ve eaten?” Hannibal draws warm tongue over the mark and bites again. “Six? Seven?” Achingly soft presses of mouth and another sting, hard enough to well the beginnings of blood. “For every bite you take, I will indulge in one myself as well.”

The terrible smile widens and he shifts up to capture Will’s lips again, the taste of berries and the wildness at the heart of the other bright on his tongue. “So deliciously sun-ripened.” The words hiss teasingly back at Will, the nip coming as he draws back. “Four for your seven. Have you a preference where the next one lands?” 

Will gasps, a sound almost like laughter as Hannibal’s teeth press into his skin, claim him again and again as he’s laid claim to the fruit so contested. The threat is obvious, the predator’s mouth against his flesh, teeth that have torn and consumed this particular flavor in quantities too numerous to fathom.

Will wonders distantly how he tastes compared to the others that Hannibal has devoured before.

A stretch, languid and lithe, affecting a carelessness even as his mind seeks darker corners of memories that he refuses to forget, could not forget, in truth, even if he tried. Will tilts his head against his shoulder, baring his neck, a curve of collar bone beneath the threadbare t-shirt that clings to him in the dawning heat of day.

“Here,” Will instructs him, shifting his shoulder forward, and drawing a sharp breath through clenched teeth when Hannibal’s teeth tear against his skin again. Bruising, nearly drawing blood, and pulling a shiver through his spine when Hannibal chases the all too human tastes of fear and desire from Will with his tongue.

Another berry caught between outstretched fingers during Hannibal’s distraction, passed between Will’s lips with a low moan as Hannibal moves against his neck, pinching skin between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Will hisses, finally yielding a shift of discomfort. Hannibal tuts at the word, sinks his teeth even deeper without lifting away, another strangled curse between them. 

“Spreading obscenities,” Hannibal chides, strong fingers curling into Will’s hair, arms curving behind his body to tangle roughly into the strands, and with the same playful curiosity Will wears, he tugs. Yanks to send the other’s neck back at a sharp angle with just enough force to hold it. Kisses slot under Will’s chin, the scrape of teeth beneath his jaw, and Hannibal shifts himself up, blocks the sun with his body as he hovers over the other, mouth gliding to taste the rays soaked into his skin, the flush of pain, sends his shadow over all of it. Below him, Will’s back arches, embracing their twining.

“No different than plucking my berries.” 

The heat dances off their skin now, sweat pooling beneath the fabric of their clothes. His other hand finds Will’s side, splays across it, the entire canvas waiting below pulling with a siren’s song, but he resists - as Will asked him to, even as the images of what he might do cloud his thoughts, the color, purple, scarlet, like berries, like blood, smeared across the surface.

“An equal corruption of my space.” The scent of fear twists rife off the other, sweeter than the aroma of the garden, than the wildflowers in the field beyond, a sensational perfume that nature herself cannot but envy, flavored always with the fight in him. Another kiss stolen, his fingers uncurling against Will’s scalp, holding it as his teeth form more marks, just below the ear.

“Another bite, we have decided, for another berry, but however shall I match the ugly twists of your tongue?”

Will jerks sharply at the bite, feeling the movement of his pulse beneath Hannibal’s teeth, knowing that the scant barrier of skin so easily severed would find him bleeding out amongst the berries. An instinctive resistance, pulling away but finding himself held tight by arms stronger than his own.

“My hands have earned your mouth,” Will suggests through clenched teeth, struggling now against himself as much as Hannibal. “Stands to reason then that my mouth - obscene as it fucking is, apparently - earns your hands. They’re certainly capable of creating enough ugliness.”

An accusation, sudden and sharp, escalating the game in rapid order. Will catches sight of the shears glinting arm’s reach away and pulls his lower lip between his teeth, a cold regret at the words and a dire hope that Hannibal has forgotten the nearness of the blades in the flurry of savagery ladi against Will’s body.

“All over a handful of berries,” Will chides him, patronizing, and the words have hardly left his lips before he wonders what possesses him to push like this. Knowledge, perhaps, that Hannibal has so often proved himself unable to act against him with finality, and that Will’s death would undo him just as much as it would Will himself.

“Have you no longer a wish to play?” Hannibal ignores the half hearted distraction thrown his direction, not a dog to follow a moving bone when something much more delicious still lingers beyond. “So soon you break for all your words, and I have barely begun at all.”

Their chests are tight together, no room for Will to breathe without inhaling his air as well. “Where are your dancing fingers now? Though your tongue is alive and well.” A poisonous kiss and he bites into it, lets blood taint the other’s taste, metallic, iron and pain. “Steal a berry and we may consume it together. Or have they been too touched by my ugliness to serve your interests, now that you reconsider?”

Burning embers brush through his speech, stoked by the harshness of Will’s own words, the gleeful purring stemming from them, no acknowledgment of the pain wrought by accusations, only the retribution that falls as consequence. Fingers flit beneath fabric, scratch up to draw welts across Will’s side.

“I don’t recall you finding such fault with my hands when they touched you last.” A twist to the other’s hair, painful, bringing him up again, closer. “In any case, you are mistaken. Your fingers have earned my teeth, but perhaps if you recant and ask in nicer sounds, your tongue can earn my mouth.”

With a fluid motion, he reaches back, finds the shears and flips them open, the cold edge of metal resting against Will’s stomach, waiting in menace. In promise. “You wanted to test me.” The hand in Will’s hair softens. “That is what I love about you, I hear.” 

“Yes,” Will responds, frozen, fight or flight in conflict now and at odds with the desire he feels creeping hot through his veins, curling in the pit of his stomach where the blade now rests against smooth skin. “And it’s what you wanted, too,” he continues, infuriating certainty in his voice. “That is what I love about you.”

Held so firmly in Hannibal’s grip with metal cold against his skin, it’s harder to make himself move than it is to move, though that proves difficult as well as he stretches. Teeth gritted, he plucks another berry free of the bush and holds it between them. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, his fingers are caught between their mouths as they close around the berry and sink into a deeper kiss. 

Hannibal cuts deftly as with a gasp, their tongues meet, as he pushes Will back towards the dusty ground. The metal moves against him, inch by inch, the wrong end of the blade dragging along the other’s body as the right one pries open the thin t-shirt.

The soil welcomes them, dry earthy warmth finding Hannibal’s elbow as he kisses and tears - tears the berry in half, tears into Will’s lips, across his tongue, tears the shirt from his body and Will opens up around him, taunts him with his own desires. Rips and engulfs, tastes the lives he has wrought from the earth, exposed from seed to fruit, grown from the mud. 

Under the beating sun, a burning at the back of his neck now, the restless murmur of the breeze through the vines, the creaking of the trees, the unceasing buzzing of insects, the cacophony of life and death that surrounds them, savagery grows in him. A snip and the shirt bares its contents, his fingers roughly shoving it away as he curls over Will. Hannibal had been scolded earlier for removing himself from nature, had prophesied his own fall, and now they tangle in the dust, a god no longer, now a beast.

“It is what I wanted,” he murmurs, forgoes Will’s swollen lips to drag his mouth across the ridges of his body, blood and earth inside him, atop him, around them as they meld into the landscape, stone and sun and bursting juice. Another bite, this time against the softness of Will’s stomach, already the heat seeping in.

“Perhaps we will grow then, now that we have found ourselves in the earth together.” 

The shears are still gripped tight, cold against Will’s skin where Hannibal skims across his chest with the hand that holds them. He arches, shivering despite the summer heat around them, and curls his bare toes into the dirt. One leg lifts, thigh pushing against Hannibal’s side as he drapes it across his back, and he can’t help but laugh as he twists out of the severed shirt.

Laid bare first by chastening, then by memories, and now by Hannibal himself who makes a small warning noise as Will writhes pleased beneath him.

Dirty fingers press through Hannibal’s hair, untidying it and him in turn.

“I wonder if the fall in Eden was anything like this,” Will considers, insurmountably pleased at the thought. “Sacred fruits consumed for knowledge of the flesh.”

His breath hitches, words cut short as Hannibal moves lower still, blades dangerously close against the soft skin of his hip as he holds Will in place, and works open the fly of his jeans, slides them down his body. 

They shift the cloth away together, Will’s body raising into the air, Hannibal’s following the fabric of the jeans as he removes it, nipping as each fresh inch of skin is revealed, painful worship, the price of his affections. And then they too are gone and Will is stripped bare, pale skin against the baked ground and all else exposed to the surroundings, the edges of rocks digging into his back, grass and seed twining into his hair. 

“In Eden,” Hannibal murmurs as he takes the sight in, the image of Will bared and spread, crowned by the wildness of the garden, “sacred fruit brought first knowledge of nakedness, before knowledge of the flesh could be gleaned.”

He shifts, crawls himself around Will, over him, not rising, letting their bodies press together, bowed low. He pushes the other’s legs apart and backs himself down to the space they create, rains bruises along the insides of thighs, to the bone of hip.

“Do you know your nakedness, Will?” Hannibal hums the words against hardening flesh, grazes his mouth over it to feel Will squirm beneath him. “Shall I open your eyes to it?” 

Finally enough sense to bite back the first sarcastic remark that fights to fall from his mouth - that he knows not only his own nakedness, but Hannibal’s as well, in the most Biblical definition of knowing - Will merely grins in response.

“Haven’t you already?” Feigning innocence, eyes wide as Will watches Hannibal move between his thighs. Hair falling into his face, hands and forearms smudged with dirt, kneeling unhesitant against the dark earth beneath them. As undone as Will had desired him to be, and pleased to find himself the sacrifice in its doing.

Each bite draws a hissed breath, a flush of color along his cheeks, his chest, thighs, cock now hard against his belly. He arches, shoulders digging against the soil and the rocks beneath him, and begs softly, “Show me then, serpent. Make me know.”

With rough hands, Hannibal grasps onto Will’s ankles and pushes them back, forces his knees to bend, in supplication, in offering, as he spreads the other before him, slithering forward through the dirt like the namesake Will offers him. 

“When man found he had displeased God.” The breaths ghost along flesh, raise goosebumps in their wake. “He apologized for his insolence, plead for forgiveness.” With a satisfied curl of tongue, he forces Will’s legs still back, shifting his hips upwards, exposing him without tenderness, trapping him there for Hannibal to look upon, the heavy weight of his gaze taking in the body that shudders beneath it, as though sight itself falls like touch upon it.

“And I shall have the same from you.” 

Slow, fluid, movements uncoil, Hannibal’s fingers reaching before him to twist into soft skin, press into the cleft of Will’s cheeks to part and spread him. In the briefest of indulgences, he allows the pads of his thumbs to rub slowly into Will, works them back and forth, teasing up and down his entrance, not piercing him yet, only dry temptations, a hint of pressure. Splayed and opened as he is, the other cannot force him further, can do nothing but accept what Hannibal gives as he toys. Sputtered gasps fall around them, the arching of muscle comes, the digging of hands into dirt. And Hannibal’s hands dig too, leave reddened marks on the swells beneath them, pain now, mixing with the beginnings of pleasure. 

“But first I shall know every part of you - here in the dirt, to please your whims.” A soft kiss to a welt his nails dug.

Will groans, arching towards the mouth that moments before laid marks on his skin, now offering a sweeter punishment for his misbehaviors, delighted when the touch of Hannibal’s tongue against him does not yet come.

“Please,” An aching sound, and he lets go of the earth that grounds him to instead push his fingers through Hannibal’s hair again, squirming to bring him nearer.

This, enough it seems, to merit the first brush of lips against his skin, forcing a long moan. Will’s toes curl, held aloft above him by Hannibal’s hands as they shove behind his knees, and color floods his skin, blooming bright and ruddy scarlet. He wonders, for a moment, if the neighbors can see through the trees that surround the yard, and what they would think of their lovely neighbor Doctor Lecter so bent over the prone and naked man writhing beneath him.

The thoughts disperse in a burst as Hannibal’s tongue draws against him, and a gasp cuts short in his throat.

A quick flick follows the longer pull, teasing and tormenting, pushing forward with his tongue only to retreat, curve around the edges, mouth shifting to kiss at skin again, soft swipes of dry lip until Will is all but yanking into his hair, twisting himself into the dust to do so, desperate to bring him back to his exploration, spreads his legs without realizing, eyes half lidded into the brightness of the sky. Truly, now, Hannibal curses the sparrows for their seats from above, his mind threading together a painting from Will’s cries, his body pushing obscenely into soil, and back against Hannibal’s tongue, his lips swollen and parted, cheeks flushed from sun and lust.

“No,” Hannibal murmurs, breath ghosting where Will wishes his tongue to go, the stream of air drawing over him, a taste of tongue follows, earns twists and pants as the other contorts around him, attempts to push himself lower.

“Do not plead for your pleasure.” He tilts his chin, uses his fingers to stop the motion, part Will further, make him feel his unraveling, too spread and contorted to find the proper leverage and work himself down against Hannibal’s mouth. His tongue sinks lightly in, sucks in sure motions, lips sealing, walls clamping frantically down around him.

Will pleads again, murmuring words that slur into each other, a fine whine, high into the air, tries futilely to grasp more than is being given and so Hannibal withdraws. 

“I will leave you here in the grass, spread and wanting, and you will get nothing, Will. Your pleasure is not what I asked you to plead for.”

"You are a vengeful god," Will chuckles low, and the sound resonates into a groan of dissatisfaction, deprivation. He runs a hand over his face, back up into his hair, curling there to push it back from his eyes so that he can more readily observe Hannibal, perched and waiting, between his thighs.

A shiver, as their eyes meet across the length of his body, and Will watches wide-eyed as Hannibal's teeth catch the inside of his thigh again.

"Wrathful," he purrs, coiling up the length of his spine as Hannibal's breath falls warm against his skin. "Enough to put me in fear of you, but haven't you made me in your image?"

He pulls his thumb across Hannibal's mouth, traces his teeth with the tip of it, one hand in his own hair and the other still curled against Hannibal's cheek. A fond gesture, despite the implications of his words.

"What good is cruelty without kindness? Would you not show your forgiveness to me, infinite in your mercy, for my disobedience?"

A kiss to the finger that brushes Hannibal’s mouth, the sight of Will before of him, perfection, in all considerations the portrait of god, fingers and grass tangled in his unruly locks. He slides slowly forward and Hannibal’s tongue slots in place again, pushing flat into Will’s body, easy, strokes of hot pleasure, lingering. 

“I would show you kindness.” His laugh curls out. “It is kind to punish wrongdoing until it becomes once again right. I fear you have learned your lessons too well, think yourself a being above, but I am a jealous god, and there shall be no other gods but me.” 

_“So I will undo you.”_

A whispered hiss, barely audible as Hannibal’s neck bends, draws finally to the task at hand, pressing fiercely into Will. A wicked tongue for a wicked god, and he dances the muscle into the other, inflicts torment with pressure and change, jaw widening. For the space of a second he sucks hard, pushes back to delve deep again, sets a rhythm that pushes but fails to reach far enough, tosses Will on the storm of his pleasure and Hannibal’s whims, and Will laughs. 

A lilting light sound that seems perfectly at peace among the sparrows and the soil, the berries and the leaves, not yet cast out of the garden but becoming more a part of it with every roll of hips to meet Hannibal’s mouth, every hitched breath drawn from him with a press of tongue.

He loosens his hand from his own hair, skimming it down the bared expanse of his body, and grasps himself with a long, pleased stroke. Catching his lower lip between his teeth, Will moans, an all-too human sound for all their declarations of godhood, taking his own satisfaction only as Hannibal allows it. Wrist twisting, fingers tightening around his cock in time with the feel of Hannibal’s tongue, lips, teeth tasting his flesh. He shivers and arches, draping his other leg over Hannibal’s shoulders, heels hooking together around him.

Bent nearly up onto his shoulders now as Hannibal presses into him, cruel fingernails leaving scarlet stripes in the pale skin of his thighs, Will moves as Hannibal would move him, relents in his taunting to twist himself to Hannibal’s mercies and cruelties, as he finds himself so often moved.

“Submit those thieving fingers of yours to me.” Hannibal pulls back, pauses long enough to breathe. “When I move you may move as I do and I will forgive you.” A hint of threat hidden in the trail of the voice, coupled with the promise of reward. His lip curls into a smirk and he hums, falling back as though to test the notion. Waiting.

“Show me your devotion.”

A groan comes, Will clutching onto himself even as Hannibal’s mouth leaves him, suspended in his own touch, but then, eyes closing, the fingers uncurl themselves from his hardened skin, though they linger waiting, hover too close. Pull away as Hannibal does, pause, hover nearer when he moves again. 

The tip of tongue inside of Will and so the tip of finger on top of him, excruciating circles at his entrance trail into pads of fingers along his cock and nothing more, a sudden thrust from Hannibal and he clutches himself again, only to have fingers fall away as the other pulls back. In tandem, he strokes when Hannibal strokes, curls his fingers when Hannibal his tongue, aches and strains to follow the rhythms he cannot hear, that Hannibal hums for him with his lip and his tongue, that pull at the strings and pluck. 

Hannibal plays no simple melodies, watches the dance of fingers playing his notes and feels his own arousal heating in his veins, tastes Will’s burning hot against him, pushes deeper and claws harder and waits for the other to echo it all on himself.

Will is no musician, but he feels music - this kind, in particular - more acutely than most musicians do. Less notes to be seen and studied than to be experienced, to know what follows naturally from one to the next. A breath warmer than the cool breeze against his bare skin makes his fingers hesitate, teeth driving against his skin a swelling crescendo stroked hard up the length of his cock. Trills of tongue traced teasing brings to life a high, whimpering moan as his fingers touch across the head.

Building, rising melodies felt and shared, manifesting in heaving breaths and rolling hips, in sensations pulled from his body as easily as Hannibal pulls notes from his harpsichord, pulls gasps from startled victims that fall beneath his hands as readily as Will does now.

“Forgive me,” Will laughs again, and the sound chokes short as his body reaches its climax and the music breaks into sunlight, golden hot behind his eyelids as they flutter closed and his seed spills across the garden soil.

A low tone, a vocal sigh, as denouement, when his body eases back to the earth and then rises, curling, to bring Hannibal against him. Letting him taste the sweat and dirt against Will’s neck, eyes closed in content redemption for his sins.

Will’s voice is as soft as the wind around them when he murmurs against Hannibal’s ear, arms looping loose around him.

“Will I still be exiled from your garden?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s lips graze softly over bites left, the fruit beneath the dust, body curling closer, trailing fingers down Will’s spine. “You have stolen of my fruits and felt your nakedness, wrought corruption on my place of life. And so you cannot stay, one with the dust though you may be.”

With swift motions, he yanks them, presses Will’s limber body against his stained clothes, fingers in his hair once more. “But fortunately for you, I am merciful and will not banish you from my house.” He reaches behind him, twists a berry and raises it to Will’s lips. “Tempting as the garden hose might be for your current state.” 

No, he will allow Will to relish in dragging his muddy feet across the pristine tiles, to reach out and dirty the clean counters as he drags his fingers along them on the way. He will take him to the shower and taste the water that slips across his skin, and glory as they consume each other again and again, wholly.

“I will wash away your sins,” he murmurs, “and perhaps you shall call out my name.”


End file.
